SNAFU
by Sake Bottle Swing
Summary: situation normal? hardly. It's war between Mark and Roger when Mark walks in on something unexpected and totally embarassing. Mostly friendship, MAYBE fluffy slash.
1. fighting evil by moonlight

Hello, and welcome to the Mark and Roger..err…whatever you call these. Scenes, more or less. These are insights into their friendship and all the things they do to each other. I might include some slash-ish ones in there, but these should be more friendship. They can be if you so desire. All you have to do is dream, dreamers!

Oh, for the sake of convenience, this is modern times. Simply because of the TV shows, that's all really. And the cultural references. But that's it.

Mark and Roger: BOOOORING!

Shut up! Here's the disclaimer: I rent RENT. I own the DVD but no rights. (pout) So these _garçons gorgeous_ do not belong to me.

Step 1: Caught Red Handed

No sooner had Mark slid back the metal door of the loft that he knew something was amiss. He could feel the slight static of the television, and hear theme music, but it wasn't theme music he'd ever heard before. He knew Roger was a fan of CSI, and House, M.D and other such shows, but they weren't shown at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. There was only one logical explanation in Mark's mind.

_He's watching daytime soaps._

Cringing to himself as to how he lost his best friend to _As the World Turns_, Mark crept up slowly on Roger, silently winding his camera as he went. His roommate lay stretched on the couch, completely engrossed by the slightly fuzzy picture on the screen. When Mark finally recognized what was on the TV, he had to clap his hand over his mount to keep from laughing.

It was way better than TV soaps. And it was perfect blackmail.

Mark vacated the loft to walk around the city, film people going about their lives, and waiting until five when it was his normal time to be let off of work. Today had been a slow day, and his boss at the coffee shop he worked at let him go early. Mark thanked him silently for his insight; today's film was priceless.

At seven minutes past five, Mark climbed the stairs to the loft and slid the door back again. Roger had shut off the TV and was sitting on their metal table, trying furiously to compose a song. Perfect.

Mark began to hum a bar of the theme music he'd heard earlier. Roger paused, annoyed at the interruption, from his strumming. He loathed when people distracted him in a moment of inspiration, especially with a different tune than the one in his mind. He shook his head, though, and ignored his roommate.

Mark hummed again. This time Roger set his guitar down and ran a hand through his hair. "Do you mind?" he inquired, agitated. "I'm trying to write a song and I need to concentrate."

"Sorry," Mark muttered. He waited until Roger had slung the guitar over his shoulder again and arranged his fingers for an A minor chord before he sang, "_Fighting evil by moonlight_,"

Roger thumped his hand against the guitar's body and turned to stare at his roommate. "Why the hell are you singing the theme song to 'Sailor Moon'?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd sing a few bars to the theme song of your favorite show to calm you down. _Winning love by daylight_…" he sang again.

"What are you talking about? The only Sailor Moon I've seen is when I watched after my niece a few months ago."

"Because you had the DVDs."

"I did not, we rented them."

"You must've forgotten to return them, then." Mark grinned as he whipped out the second season of Sailor Moon DVDs from behind his back. Roger yelped like he'd been wounded and ran to save his precious DVDs.

"Where did you get those?"

"Under your bed, right next to the first season, and third season, and the Sailor Moon R movie, and—"

"How did you find out about these?"

"I came back to the loft earlier while you were watching them. _Never running from a real fight_…"

"Give them back!"

"_She is the one named Sailor Moon_!"

"Mark, give me my goddamned DVDs back! Come on!"

"Gee, Rog, I didn't know you were such an anime freak."

"I'm not! I just watched some of it when I was a kid and I was having a nostalgia moment."

"C'mon, Rog, I know that you just want to get into Sailor Moon's skirt. I know those pigtails drive you wild."

"MARK!"

"Meatball-head!" Mark countered.

"You're gonna be meatball if you don't give me back my DVDs this instant!"

"Hahaha, Tuxedo Mask isn't going to rescue you now! The Negaverse has you outwitted, Sailor Fender, now you're helpless!"

"Caffeine-Spiral Coffee-pot Attack!" Roger screamed as he brandished the precious coffee-pot at Mark, though he had to admit he was kind of getting into this.

"NOOOOOOO!" Mark screamed in fake pain and dropped to the floor in fake convulsions. "Not…the coffee….I will return!"

"And I have succeeded!" Roger grinned and plucked his DVDs out of Mark's hands while helping his best friend up. "So, Sailor Nerd, who is our next enemy?"

Mark pouted slightly at his newly earned title, but grinned as an idea popped into his head. "The Evil Queen Drama and her right hand henchwoman, Lawyerite. But we shall recruit the powers of Sailor Anarchist and Sailor Drag Queen to help us in the final battle!" And he and Roger ran off to give some old friends of theirs some hell.

Reviews are like chocolate: essential for survival. Danke Schon! And cheers to anyone who can make sense of all the Sailor Moon junk….


	2. manic panic run!

Ah, domo arigato to EVERYONE who reviewed (or at least read) the first chapter, and now I bring you the second! I greatly appreciate all of your feedback-you are too kind! And now…I don't own RENT, blah blah blah, ditto ditto.

A/N: I actually expanded this chapter due to overwhelming feedback from the first chappie

"ROGER!"

"It looks nice!"

"LIKE HELL IT DOES! WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"I didn't—Mark, that's our only coffeepot, don't you dare—"

"Roger, what did you do to me! You had better tell me this comes out!"

"It does!"

"How?"

Roger sweatdropped. "Uh…I think the package said 20-30 shampoos…"

"…I'LL KILL YOU!"

"No, stop, don't, it was just a joke! It was a joke!"

"Roger, we aren't in college anymore. Well, I'm not in college anymore, you didn't even start there! And if you did you would've been put fraternity Alpha Sigma Sigma! Why didn't I just buy you a UMASS sweatshirt and stick a 'D' in front of the 'U'?"

"UMASS…" Roger pieced it together in his head. "D in front--DUMA--oh! I get it! Clever little bastard, aren't you?"

"Why couldn't you have just covered the toilet seats with Saran Wrap?"

"Because a) we have no Saran Wrap and b) this is fifty times more original-and hilarious, I might add. C'mon, can't you take a joke?"

Mark halted on the other side of the couch with a grinning Roger staring back at him. "Dyeing my hair this color while I slept does _not _count as a joke. It counts as sadistic torture."

"How is it sadistic?"

"It is in that you find so much enjoyment from the fact that it looks like Barbie threw up on my head!"

"I know, but—I thought it was funny."

Mark folded his arms across his chest. "Roger, your hair isn't bright pink. You're going to straighten in out, _now_."

"Hmm…nah, I don't think I'm tired of it quite yet…"

"Roger!" Mark whined. "I have to go to work tomorrow! I can't go in looking like this, I get enough flack already! People will think I'm Pink's bastard offspring or something!"

Roger chuckled. "That's pretty funny, actually. Are you a 'Stupid Girl' or are you just 'Mizundastood'?"

"Roger…" Mark's voice got a dangerous edge to it, a warning father tone that would be incredibly useful should the day come he have a family. "Roger, if you wash my hair right now I promise not to kill you later."

"Not good enough, you're hair's still got a hilarious factor of about twenty out of twenty."

"I'll give you what I know you'll want. I'll give you—"

Roger bolted upright, his lips curling into a warm smile and closing his eyes in bliss as Mark said the magic "S" word. Of what that did to him. Of the nice feeling he got inside.

Roger was feeling warm and fuzzy all of a sudden, and a warm and fuzzy Roger was capable of great things.

Twenty minutes later, Mark was kneeling in front of the bathtub with his head underneath a jet of water as Roger scrubbed his scalp for the fifth time. Mimi conveniently had some baby shampoo with her, which was useful for removing hair dye. Of course, since Roger had used Manic Panic, it only took five shampoos to remove the cursed pink dye. Mark's hair was still a little tinged by the fifth scrubbing, but he said his knees were killing him and that he, unlike some people, was not raised Catholic and used to spending a lot of time kneeling.

After Mark towel-dried his hair, he turned to see Roger staring at him like an expectant puppy, eagerly waiting for his reward. Mark sighed, threw the towel on the floor, and retrieved something from the top shelf of his closet.

"Here," he grunted, tossing Roger's Sailor Moon DVDs at him as his roommate released an excited squeal. Mark reminded himself to comb through the house for any remaining Manic Panic dye for his revenge.

Review…review…Mark and Roger say review…

Mark and Roger: Review….

A/N: I apologize for anyone who went to UMASS and happened to be in fraternity Alpha Sigma Sigma. No sweatshirts were horrendously ridiculed in the making of this fic.


	3. badly sung marseillaise

Wow! Due to overwhelming feedback—you are all fabulous!—I'm updating earlier than when I'd planned. Now Mark's getting his revenge on Roger for dyeing his hair pink, and he knows one of Roger's major weaknesses….aside from Sailor Moon

A/N: I didn't include the accents because I doubt they'd show up in this formatting, so everyone who speaks French or understands that there should be accents, formatting is the reason why.

Step 3: The Badly Sung Marseillaise.

There was a stranger sitting on Roger's couch. _No, his and Mark's couch_ he reminded himself. But possession of the couch was irrelevant, what mattered was there was a brunet with a well-groomed goatee and mustache wearing dark glasses sitting on his couch.

"Er, hello?" Roger asked tentatively, creeping closer to the couch as the stranger regarded him—did he?—with the mirrored lenses.

"Ah, bonjour. Comment ca va?"

(Translation: hello, how are you doing?)

_Damn. A foreigner. Just my luck for an idiot tourist from the Riviera to wander up to my loft to ask for directions to Radio City Music Hall. _"Um bonjour," Roger replied. His accent was terrible and he only knew about three words of French. "Sorry, I don't speak-"

"Je suis un cousin de Marc," the stranger continued as if he didn't hear him. "Ou est-il?"

(translation: I am Mark's cousin. Where is he?"

"I think he's out filming. You're French, right? I don't speak French, I'm sorry."

The stranger stood up and began to pace around the room, obviously frustrated. "Je suis desolee, mais je ne parle pas un mots d'anglais. Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais il est necessaire que je trouve mon cousin. C'est tres important."

(translation: I am sorry, but I don't speak a word of English. Excuse me, sir, but it is necessary that I find my cousin. It's very important.)

Roger began to back away from this man and his goatee, both of which were scaring him more by the minute. Getting a closer look at the man's face, he realized that he did look an awful lot like Mark. "Mark, is that you? Stop spitting French at me, this isn't funny!"

"Je ne suis pas Marc, je suis son cousin." The man was a trifle irritated at this point. "Ou est-il?"

(translation: I am not Mark, I am Mark's cousin. Where is he?)

"I don't know! I don't speak French!"

The man got up close and in Roger's face. He swore the eyes blinked at him angrily behind the dark lenses. "Dites-moi ou il est cet instant!"

(translation: Tell me where he is this instant!).

"Uh…um…please get away from me, you're really scaring me." Roger realized that anything he said was futile, but he figured he might get lucky and maybe this freak with the goatee would leave. However, his words had no effect as the man stood closer until he was right underneath Roger, glaring up at him angrily. "Cessez de jouer des jeux avec moi, Americain, ceci est extremement important!"

(translation: Stop playing games with me, American, this is extremely important!)

Suddenly, the few words Roger knew in French dawned on him. He had absolutely no idea what they meant, but he hoped against hope that at least speaking this weirdo's language would soothe him. "Vous etes benie entre tout les femmes!"

(translation: You are the best among all women.)

Far from soothing the man, he appeared highly insulted. "Vous batard ignorant peu sensible! Je vous terai!"

(translation: You ignorant, insensitive bastad! I'll kill you!)

The man grabbed Roger by the shoulders and started shaking him viciously, screaming, "OU EST-IL? OU EST-IL?" repeatedly until the heavenly sound of the loft door sliding back reached Roger's tormented ears.

The man released him and excitedly ran over to Mark, who looked incredibly confused but began to speak to the man in French. The two nodded, shrugged, and pointed at Roger, then continued nodding and shrugging while Roger stood frozen to the spot as the past five minutes sunk into his head. Finally, the man rushed over, gave what sounded like a heartfelt apology, kissed him on both cheeks, and walked out of the loft with Mark. Roger sank down on the couch, still dazed. /I really need to remember to lock that door more often./ he thought as the door slid shut and Mark escorted the strange to, as Roger guessed, Radio City Music Hall.

Outside the loft building, Mark burst into laughter, as did the man he was walking with. "Rob, I have to hand it to you, you got him good. He really thought you were French."

"I'm glad you were waiting outside the whole time," Rob commented while he removed his glasses. "I was about to run out of French phrases soon and would have to resort to screaming the 'Hail Mary' in his face."

"Do you think he realized that we were just saying lines from 'Le Marseillaise' to each other?"

"I doubt it. By the way, why is your hair kinda pink?"

A/N the part about the nodding and shrugging comes from Louise Rennison's "Dancing in my Nuddy Pants", which is the fourth volume of the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson series. Which I don't own. Please send feedback and I shall send cookies!


	4. in which the camera makes its descent

I'm so sorry this took forever to update! Summer reading really sucks.

Part 4-in which the camera sees things it never wanted to see

The morning after the "Frenchman" incident, Mark was dead to the world. He had very few memories of the night before, except there had been an awful lot of—tea? How was it that tea made him feel like a ton of bricks had been dropped on his head, then a steamroller drove over his head/pancake (as it was very squished by now) and then a lawn mower…you get the picture.

Regardless of the state of his head, Mark was being roughly shaken by his frazzled,_ caring_ roommate. "Mark! Mark! You have to get up! You'll be late for work!"

"Unh washu nemashmoken," muttered Mark in the language of sleep. There was a snowball's chance in hell he was getting out of bed this morning.

Five minutes later, a grumbling, half-dressed Mark was stumbling towards the coffee shop where he worked as Roger's shouts of "Bring me back a muffin!" rang in his ears. At least he wasn't afraid that his roommate was actually showing some pathos for him. Yet as Mark dodged early morning taxicabs and buses, he couldn't help but get the feeling that he was forgetting something…

Roger stood in the loft holding Mark's most treasured possession in his hands. He was so glad he'd slipped that Lunesta into his tea the night before—yes, it had been absolute hell trying to wake the sleepy filmmaker (Roger thought as he gingerly touched the bruise blooming over his eye)—but the revenge would be worth it. He grabbed a reel marked, "Christmas" and set about to work.

Mark came home at exactly seven minutes past five, being the very punctual person he was. He'd never gotten home at a different time other than 5:07. Although the effects of the sleeping pills were still wearing off, he decided to edit a few film reels before retiring to a very long sleep. He snapped his camera into the projector, worked his filmmaker voodoo magic, and previewed the reel he was going to show his friends for Christmas.

(Little did Mark realize that he had, in fact, forgotten his camera that morning, and thusly the footage of pigeons, children playing in the park, and drug dealers being arrested, which he had actually filmed with his scarf, were all figments of his imagination.)

Instead of his introduction of giving Christmas wishes to all of his friends while Roger, extremely frustrated with his guitar started screaming at it and throwing the coffeepot in the background, the film began with a shot of Roger's stomach. Roger's stomach with a face drawn on it in Sharpie markers.

"Hi, everyone!" Roger said in a falsetto while making his belly button do the talking. "It's Mark here, and I just want to wish everyone a shitty Christmas. I hate all of you! Drop dead! Well, that's going to happen to Angel and Collins and Mimi and Roger anyways, so ha! Neener neener neener!"

It only got worse after that.

After Roger was bored with the talking-tummy idea, the camera cut to a shot of several apples sitting on the counter. He'd given them faces with Sharpie as well and was re-enacting a very dramatic scene from "A Few Good Men".

"The truth!" the Granny Smith screamed. "You can't handle the truth!"

"Gentlemen, you can't fight in here, this is the war room!" cried the Red Delicious, quoting Doctor Strangelove.

"Frankly, Miss Scarlet, I don't give a damn," replied the golden apple as it retreated from the counter while the Red Delicious burst into tears. This was all well and good until Roger smashed them all the pieces while laughing insanely. He shot over a minute of gory footage of the tragic deaths of seven apples, five bananas, nine kiwis, and fifteen blueberries. After the carnage, he narrated, "Eh, Mark can take care of that,"

Then there was the Bohemian Sock Puppet Theater, doing their "Roger is a Sex God" show. Then there was footage of Roger, dancing on the table, wearing a lampshade on his head, singing, "Oh, Marky, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind hey Marky! Hey Marky!". Then there was the Kidnapping of Roger's beloved Fender, Musetta, as Mark's camera held her for a ransom of ten pounds each of Starbursts and double chocolate muffins.

Mark could only watch in horror at the seventy five minutes of unedited, completely puerile garbage that Roger had filled up his day with.

Yes, Roger would die a very slow and painful death.

His soon-to-be-late roommate was sitting on the table on which he had previously danced, staring into space and pretending to think. "Roger…" purred Mark slowly as he stalked towards him. "Roger…you wouldn't have happened to have my camera with you today, did you?"

"Nope, you took it with you to work, as always."

"Oh really? Then how do you explain this!" Mark cried and pointed towards the projector, which was showing the ending of the footage Roger had shot (it was another "drop dead" message from Mark the belly button)

"Wow, Mark, you've got some twisted ideas for stuff to film. I mean, shots of your abs? No one wants to see that Mark. And that's so mean, what you said about poor Collins and Angel and Mimi, not to mention me. What's with the fruit? And….aw, the "Roger is a Sex God!" show. Isn't that cute? Marky, I didn't know you cared!" He embraced his roommate in a tight hug, who now looked as though he was about to strangle Roger with whatever items he could find.

"Roger…"

"What is it, my little Markykins?"

"…you're dead."

Roger laughed as Mark chased him around the loft, hurling various missiles at him and screaming death threats until someone slid the door back.

"Hey Mark?" his cousin called out. "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that you never picked up your hat, and I thought I'd give it back…"

Roger froze dead in his tracks as realization dawned on him. There was something very familiar about this man with a goatee and beret that could suddenly speak English…

Reviews are love!


	5. musetta for ransom!

After what has been close to forever ( I am so sorry for the intense delay in updates, but I started working on other fanfics/went to handbell camp/did summer reading/etc) here is the fifth installment of SNAFU. Mark is obviously pissed that Roger stole his camera, so he's playing a little quid pro quo with him

As usual, I do not own RENT and I never will. Anyway…

Part 5-Striking a very wrong chord

Why did Roger get so pissy and upset when his cousin returned to drop off his hat? Sure, he had hired him to scare the shit out of Roger by being a French tourist, but Roger dyed his hair pink, but he stole Roger's….there was no doubt about it, the little pranks in the loft had turned into a full-fledged war.

Mark fumbled for his glasses, amazed that they weren't covered in shaving cream or some other form of detritus. He sat up in bed and mulled over his roommate's demise, wondering the perfect form of revenge.

A particular scene in Roger's "Christmas" footage stuck with his mind. The kidnapping of Roger's beloved Fender, Musetta. Childish, he knew, yet also highly effective. Besides, Roger had given him the perfect idea. Luckily, he knew for a fact his roommate had been dragged to a Life Support meeting fifteen minutes earlier and would be gone for a good portion of the day. Quickly Mark set the wheels turning in his head to action and waited eagerly for his roommate to return home.

Roger's Life Support Meeting lasted for a good chunk of the day, but in the end he felt much better about himself. This painstakingly established self-confidence, however, crashed down around his ears when he entered the loft.

If someone had held up a photograph of the loft and asked Roger, "What's Wrong with This Picture?" he could have pinpointed every detail in a second, from the fact that Mark was absent, the coffeepot was not in its usual place, the couch had been moved, the fridge was covered in a hundred Post-It notes, and—horror of all horrors—Musetta was missing.

Our hero nearly burst into tears when he realized that his beloved Musetta was gone. However, his newly acquired Life Support skills told him that _Panic is no good! You must calmly assess the situation and pinpoint your options._ If these were the skills he was learning to cope with HIV perhaps he was in the wrong meeting.

First, Roger took several deep, hyperventalitive breaths and strode calmly over to the refrigerator. He didn't even need to analyze the untidy scrawl to know that Mark's handwriting decorated the nauseating arrangement of paper squares on the refrigerator door. The squares read, "_Your precious instrument has been kidnapped. If you want to see her intact and in tune again, bring a ransom of ten pounds each of Starbursts and double chocolate muffins. Otherwise, she will be sacrificed to the almighty God of Bohemia, Maureen. Sincerely, a Kidnapper."_

_I am a fucking idiot._ Roger realized. He should never have given Mark the idea of kidnapping his guitar, though the blond was bright enough to come up with it on his own.

_Now the question remains, how do I get enough Starbursts?_

The Post-It notes on the fridge were not Roger's only instructions. Over where dearest darling Musetta's case had been was a note made from a paper bag saying, "Bring the ransom to the tree in Central Park. You know the one."

Yes, Roger knew the one. The tree he had to take a leak on two weeks ago and he accidentally sprayed this old hag's poodle and she beat him over the head with her pocketbook for twenty minutes before forgetting why she was hitting him and then offering him candy. That tree.

He scrambled around the loft, gathering spare change before realizing he could just hit the ATM Collins had rewired. Anarchy was a beautiful thing indeed.

After withdrawing enough money to purchase the required ransom, he hit a supermarket to purchase the food. The Starbursts were easy: all he needed was to grab several bags and take them to the produce section and weight them on the scales, He needed about seven or eight bags of the square candies to meet the required amount. Getting the muffins was another matter entirely. He needed to visit the bakery and hopefully they had enough muffins to supply his demand.

The fellow working at the bakery counter had a days' growth of beard and appeared short-tempered. Roger gulped. This was not a good day for a kidnapping.

"Uh, excuse me sir? Could I have ten pounds of double chocolate muffins?"

The man didn't even grant Roger the courtesy of a glare. He was too busy filling an order for two dozen cream puffs for a man who worked on Wall Street.

"Hey! I need ten pounds of double chocolate muffins!"

This got the fellow's attention. He turned around slowly, his eyes fixed in a dull yet icy stare at Roger. "Grab your own fuckin' muffins, I'm busy"

"Please, I need ten pounds of double chocolate muffins! This is really important!"

"Yeah, so is a ten pound sewer rat. Why do you need ten pounds, anyway? How bout talkin' in terms of quantity, huh?"

"I don't know how many muffins are in ten pounds, but I really need them badly. I won't go away until I get the muffins. I'll wait here all day or until the cops drag me out."

The baker raised an eyebrow at him. "Hold on a sec, will ya?" he said to the man in the business suit, who tapped his foot and sighed. "Why the hell do you need these muffins anyway?"

Roger gulped. He didn't want to exactly explain to the baker why he needed ten pounds of chocolate muffins, but since he didn't foresee the task being this difficult, he had no choice but to tell the truth. "It's part of a ransom. My guitar was kidnapped. By my roommate. Who will appear in the obituaries soon, if all goes well."

The baker peered more closely at Roger. "Hey, wait a sec, I've seen you before. You were that kid performin' at the club the other night! What was your name again?"

"Davis. Roger Davis. With the Well Hungarians."

"Rog? Roger Davis! I haven't seen you in years! How've you been!" Another voice called from the aisle of the supermarket. _Great, someone I don't even remember from high school or a band or what the fuck ever._ "Hey, man, what's with the Starbursts and the muffins?"

Five minutes later Roger was running down the chips aisle laden with twenty pounds of ransom, a bright red flush on his face and a desire for murder in his eyes as a crowd of admirers chased him, trying to steal a muffin.

After paying for his muffins and candies, he dashed to Central Park in the hopes that he wasn't too late to save Musetta. The hope of fondling her precious polished wooden body was his only impetus for all this humiliation.

At the appointed tree he saw nothing but a guitar case and a Post-It note, upon which was scrawled "I'm watching you right now. Take the guitar, leave the ransom and leave."

Singing hallelujiah, Roger picked up the case and cuddled while making soft cooing noises. "My baby, my precious widdle baby did mean old Marky hurt you? Awww, it's okay, Daddy's here to protect you, yes he is…." His reunion was interrupted by the squawking of an old lady waving her handbag about. "You're the ragamuffin that peed on my doggie! Get back here you scoundrel!"

Roger ran screaming through Central Park, carting Musetta around and dodging Frankie the dachshund. He was so occupied leaping over bushes and avoiding trees that he did not see Mark skirt around the park and vanish into the supermarket Roger had just left.

He strode up to the baker and tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you get it, Jack?"

Jack the baker turned around and thumped a cassette into his hands. "Every word and gesture."

"You gave him a hard time, right?"

"Yep. The skinny guy with the blond hair asking for ten pounds of chocolate muffins, right? Name's Roger?"

"That's the one. Thanks, man, I owe you one."

"No, you owe me the tape. Now hand it over, I need something good to watch tonight."

Mark dug around his pocket, procured a tape, and handed it to Jack. "Here, don't lose it. I'll need it back."

"Thanks, man," Jack grinned. "I can't wait to see the 'Roger is a Sex God' show."

Reviews would be much appreciated, and I apologize again for the delay! (bows deeply)


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